Not a Game
by Calatia
Summary: An innocent computer game leads to an unexpected reveal that causes ripples in the friendship between Sherlock and John. Missing scene for Season 3, Spoilers through all episodes. Response to letswritesherlock challenge 10. No slash.


This was written for the **Letswritesherlock** Challenge 10 'Missing Scene' on tumblr, using a prompt by **Ladyoftheunderground.**(Sorry this is sooooo late!)

_Prompt: John is playing Amnesia: The Dark Descent and Sherlock catches him in the act. John manages to convince Sherlock to give it a try; since he thinks Sherlock would like all the grisly murders, the use of historical torture items, and all the puzzles. It's all up to you how Sherlock reacts to the game._

I don't know the game, all my insight stems from the Wikipedia article. So if I offend anyone or get the gameplay totally wrong, I am sorry!

The story is set in between The Empty Hearse and The Sign of Three (with a hint of His Last Vow at the end) and contains spoilers for all S3 episodes.

Beta'd by the wonderful **MrsNoggin, **who always manages to inspire me with her comments. All remaining mistakes are my own.

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Sherlock was sitting in front of his laptop, wearing his favourite blue robe and pyjama bottoms and filing the notes from his latest case, content to know that John was upstairs in his old room. With Mary visiting a friend for an extended weekend, John had decided to crash at 221B and spend some quality time with Sherlock. Both of them had fallen back into the old comradeship easily and despite all the bickering were enjoying each other's company greatly. John had gone to his room a while ago, giving Sherlock the time to catch up with his work.

"Run, you idiot! RUN!"

Sherlock looked up, surprised to hear the voice of his former flat mate at such an elevated volume. He wrinkled his nose in confusion. John had never screamed at the TV, that had always been his domain.

"Argh, bloody hell! Fucking twat, let me GO you piece of shit!"

Jumping out of his chair after he heard John screaming again, Sherlock rushed upstairs and tore the door to John's room open in near panic. Upon seeing the total darkness in the room he flipped the light switch on, slightly perplexed by the lack of fighting noise. He froze the moment the lights turned on. The sight in front of him was not what he had expected. Not at all.

John was sitting on the bed with his laptop in front of him, headphones in his ears and staring at him like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Sherlock! What…? This is my room!" John was more startled than annoyed. Having lived with Sherlock for years, he was used to the detective completely ignoring his privacy.

"You were yelling!" Sherlock decided to state the obvious. "And why are you sitting in the dark? Your lights are not broken."

"I – I am playing a …game. A computer game. I didn't mean to shout so loud. Sorry I disturbed you." John explained sheepishly.

"Why would a game require you to scream?" Sherlock was puzzled. He didn't even know that John played computer games, let alone get so engrossed in them.

"It can be frustrating sometimes, when the character I play dies or is in danger, and then I might get a little bit worked up. Mary introduced me to it and I got hooked. It's a pretty dark game, you have to hide from monsters and work out puzzles to solve a mystery."

Mary. Well, that explained the sudden affection for games. But solving simulated mysteries? "I don't understand why you would need a computer game for that. Isn't that exactly what we do every day?"

John chuckled. "Yeah, it actually is, but the advantage here is that you can try out different approaches to a problem if you don't get it right the first time."

Sherlock looked confused with that particular concept. "I wouldn't need such a function, I always get it right."

That actually earned him a snort from John. "Sure you do. Why don't you give it try? You might actually like it."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. He had never been a big fan of computer games, but John's words were a thinly veiled challenge. And he could never resist a challenge.

"All right, how hard can it be? A phony virtual world, developed to entice the poor tastes of teenagers… not really a challenge I suppose…"

xxx

John was delighted. He explained the storyline to Sherlock and showed him how to control the game. Then he sat back and watched as his friend worked his way through the current level. He had to give it to Sherlock; he was incredibly thorough and intuitively found all the important pieces. What he didn't expect however, was Sherlock's reaction to the video sequence that he triggered at the end of the level.

John, completely absorbed by the story, watched the sequence eagerly, as it revealed a new layer of background information to the main character's dark story, the pictures of dungeons and torture adding to the horror element of the game. The sequences stopped and the game started again, but Sherlock did not continue to control the character. On second glance, John realized that his friend was completely frozen. He stared at the screen with a horrified expression and made no move to continue the game.

"Sherlock?" John asked tentatively, slightly confused. But he did not get a reply. Something had thrown Sherlock, but he could not figure out what. The detective was not in his mind palace, so much was clear from the look in his eyes and the rapid, shallow breathing. Fear started to rise up in John as his mind scrambled to make sense of the situation in front of him.

But, battle hardened doctor that he was, his training took over and he forced himself to concentrate on the medical side of the problem first. The familiarity of diagnosing an unknown illness managed to calm his nerves down. Switching into doctor mode, he bent over infinitesimally slow and pulled the laptop from his friends grasp, closing it and putting it aside. Now came the delicate part, getting Sherlock's attention without startling him.

"Sherlock?" He probed again, gently. "It's John. I am right here. Can you hear me?" He might be a surgeon, but thanks to his own experience with PTSD he recognized the signs of a panic attack even though he had never expected to see Sherlock have one.

At first there was no reaction at all from the detective. John continued to talk to him in a calm and quiet voice and after a few minutes he saw the tell tale signs of relaxation in Sherlock's previously frozen features. The eyelids started to sag a little, the jaw muscles released the tension and then, finally, the eyes regained their focus.

"John?" He asked in an uncharacteristically weak voice.

"Hey, you with me again?"

Sherlock nodded briefly, eyes darting around the room in confusion, but quickly zeroing in on his friend.

"Sherlock? What was that?" John asked pointedly, but concerned. He was not willing to let this just slide. He needed answers; he needed to figure out how badly Sherlock was affected and if he needed further help. A horrible suspicion was forming in his mind, but John was not ready to face it or, for that matter, even acknowledge it. Instead, he forced his thoughts back on the facts at hand.

He could see that his friend was still deeply affected by the panic attack. His breathing was shallow, a bit too fast for John's taste and there was a worryingly absent look in Sherlock's eyes. John pushed on. "So? Going to answer my question?"

But Sherlock paid him no attention. He settled himself back into the cushions and closed his eyes. John was about to sigh in exasperation, when his eyes caught sight of something else. The movement had caused Sherlock's robe to open up slightly and reveal parts of his chest and upper belly. John inhaled sharply at the sight. The once flawless alabaster skin was now criss-crossed with scars, some small and barely visible, some large and sharply elevated from the surrounding skin. What little of his friend's chest he saw was covered with the faint marks of past horror, and he was certain that there were a lot more hidden from view.

John gasped as the implications of these scars hit him. God, how could he have missed this! As an army doctor, he had seen similar injuries in soldiers that had been abducted by the enemy and he knew what caused them. Severe abuse, beatings and torture. His earlier suspicion had been right, but the reality was so much worse than anything his mind could ever have imagined.

He thought back to the day when Sherlock had stepped into his life again. John had been blinded by anger, otherwise how could he have missed that his friend's movements were stiffer than usual, and that he had winced under his assault more than his – albeit not exactly light – blows had warranted?

The doctor closed his eyes as waves of guilt washed over him. He'd been furious at Sherlock for faking his death, for letting him believe that he was gone, for not trusting him. He never even considered that Sherlock's mission had been a dangerous one. That he might have been hurt. But now he suddenly realized that it had never been about trust. It had always been about protection. Sherlock was trying to protect him from the dangers that lurked in the shadows.

"Sherlock… God, I am so sorry." He stuttered as he realized that Sherlock was looking at him questioningly. John couldn't bring himself to look at his friend; instead he kept his gaze fixed on the marks. "A- are you…?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock replied grudgingly and quickly adjusted his robe to hide the scars again. "And while having these injuries inflicted on me was not the most pleasant thing in the world, it was a necessary step on my way to bring down Moriarty's network. It is over now. I just overreacted to this silly game."

"Overreacted? Sherlock, you had a panic attack! That's not something you should just ignore. This is serious; you should seek professional help."

"Well, then I guess it is a good thing that I have you staying here for a while. You are my personal doctor after all, aren't you?"

And with that he got up, adjusted his clothes and left. John sat deflated on the bed and stared at door, silently cursing the detective and his refusal to talk about this. He sighed, whether Sherlock wanted his help or not, he would not let his friend down again. This time, there was nothing that would keep him from Sherlock's side.

xxx

John's resolve had lasted for several weeks, and he and Mary had pretty much lived at 221B Baker Street for a while, simply so that he could keep an eye on Sherlock. But then came the wedding, and the honeymoon, and as Sherlock seemed to do fine, he had let his vigilance slip.

Looking at the dirty and dazed body next to him he realized with horror that he had completely lost sight of Sherlock after the wedding and apparently the detective had taken a turn for the worse – and John had missed it. Not only that, in his own blissful happiness he hadn't even realised. Standing in the filthy room, looking at all the junkies and finding Sherlock as one of them had turned his emotions into a wild turmoil: anger at the detective for using again; rage and guilt at himself for not noticing it sooner, and most of all, worry and fear that he might never be able to help his friend.

As Sherlock stormed out of the building, lamenting that this was all just for a case, John hid his worry under blind rage and hoped against all logic that the detective would not recognise how he really felt. He had come so close to losing Sherlock again, and this time there was no criminal mastermind to blame, not even the drugs, no, this time it was on him for being such a poor excuse for a friend.

And while they were driving to St. Barts he was in deep thoughts, ignoring the other occupants of the car. He had to fix this, and do it properly this time. He only hoped to God that Sherlock would let him.

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